Rhoda’s squaring of her slender shoulders was distractingly boyish.  Utterly heedless of the pain which each step cost him, Kut-le made his way slowly to the ledge, ordering back the flustered squaws and leaning on Rhoda only enough to feel the tender girlish shoulders beneath the worn blue blouse.

In the camp, Rhoda assumed command while Kut-le lay on his blanket watching her in silent content.  She put one of Alchise’s two calico shirts on to boil over the breakfast fire.  She washed out the nasty cut and bandaged it with strips from the sterilized shirt.  She brought Kut-le’s breakfast and her own to his blanket side and coaxed the young man to eat, he assuming great indifference merely for the happiness of being urged.  Rhoda was so energetic and efficient that the sun was just climbing from behind the far peaks when Kut-le finished his bacon and coffee.  The girl stood looking at him, hands on hips, head on one side, with that look in her eyes of superiority, maternity and complacent tenderness which a woman can assume only when she has ministered to the needs of a helpless masculine thing.

“There!” she said with a sigh of satisfaction.

“Rhoda,” said Kut-le, hoping that the heavy thumping of his heart did not shake his whole broad chest, “how long ago was it that you were a helpless, dying little girl without strength to cut up your own food?  How long since you have served any one but yourself?”

Rhoda drew a quick breath.  She stood staring from the Indian to the desert, to her slender body, and back again.  She held out her hands and looked at them.  They were scratched and brown and did not tremble.  Then she looked at the young Indian and he never was to forget the light in her eyes.

“Kut-le!” she cried.  “Kut-le!  I am well again!  I am well again!”

She paced back and forth along the ledge.  Through the creamy tan her cheeks flushed richly crimson.  Finally she stopped before the Apache.

“You have outraged all my civilized instincts,” she said slowly, “yet you have saved my life and given me health.  Whatever comes, Kut-le, I never shall forget that!”

“I have changed more than that,” said Kut-le quietly.  “Where is your old hatred of the desert?”

Rhoda turned to look.  At the edge of the distant ranges showed a rim of red.  Crimson spokes of fire flashed to the zenith.  The sky grew brighter, more translucent, the ranges melted into molten gold.  The sun, hot and scarlet, rolled into view.  Into Rhoda’s heart flooded a sense of infinite splendor, infinite beauty, infinite peace.

“Why!” she gasped to Kut-le, “it is beautiful!  It’s not terrible!  It’s unadorned beauty!”

The Indian nodded but did not speak.  Rhoda never was to forget that day.  Long years after she was to catch the afterglow of that day of her rebirth.  Suddenly she realized that never could a human have found health in a setting more marvelous.  The realization was almost too much.  Kut-le, with sympathy for which she was grateful, did not talk to her much.  Once, however, as she brought him a drink and mechanically smoothed his blanket he said softly: